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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26593648">a rental car and a one way trip to hell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sydneymorning/pseuds/sydnoxious'>sydnoxious (sydneymorning)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>maybe you will always be, just a little out of reach [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Check Please! (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Arrests, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, First work - Freeform, Gen, Impulsive Kent, Kent worries, Las Vegas Aces, M/M, Other, drug possession, kent parson needs help, no beta we die like men, supportive friend swoops, swoops as damage control</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:48:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,772</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26593648</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sydneymorning/pseuds/sydnoxious</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent never knows when to stop. His quick, snide remarks have been useful only in the hockey rink and as a rather unhealthy coping mechanism. Tonight his mouth puts him in a place he’d hoped he’d never be again: in Jack Zimmermann’s shadow.</p><p> </p><p>or, Kent gets pulled over while speeding and is caught with various illicit substances in his backseat.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>(Past) Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Jack Zimmermann/Kent Parson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>maybe you will always be, just a little out of reach [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934545</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a rental car and a one way trip to hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi people! This is my first work, but I am a longtime fan of the comic. This work was partially inspired by one I read a while ago where Kent is pulled over and the drugs in the car are Jack’s. If you happen to know who wrote that, let me know!<br/>I plan to make this a series, but who knows.<br/>This is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine.</p><p>Enjoy!<br/>_____________________________</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kent knew he shouldn’t have pushed his luck, but it was almost second nature to cause a scene when it was most definitely not necessary. That, the drugs coursing through his system, and the anger he felt about the premature end to the Aces’ season, propelled his mouth to start speaking when he shouldn’t have.</p><p> </p><p>“We all done here, asshole?”</p><p> </p><p>The officer fixed Kent with a look fit to fry him in his seat, then raised an eyebrow. To anyone else, that would have been sign enough that they should just thank the officer and drive off into the night, but to Kent, that was a challenge - one he was intent on pushing.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you have a fucking donut to eat or something, you fucking prick?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why don’t you step out of the car, sir?” the officer grinned, yellow teeth barely showing beneath his unkempt mustache.</p><p> </p><p>Kent angrily exhaled, unbuckling his seatbelt, and reaching for the door handle, swearing as the door was pulled from his grasp. He felt a sturdy grip on his shoulder as he was forced out of the car by the officer.</p><p> </p><p>His anger at being manhandled only intensified his need to chirp.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, if you touch kids the same way you just grabbed me then you have a bigger issue on your hands than assaulting a celebrity, pedo-stache. The 70s called, they want their disgusting facial hair back.”</p><p> </p><p>The officer only grunted, then asked him to step to the side for the car to be searched.</p><p> </p><p>“So, Mr. Celebrity, got anything in here I should know about?”</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, Kent realized how stupid he was being. He did have something in the car that he shouldn’t, but, <em>come on, give him a break</em>, his team had just blown their chance at the Cup. Who wouldn’t need something to take the edge off after that blowout against the Blues? </p><p> </p><p>The gravity of the situation was just beginning to set in. </p><p> </p><p>Kent saw his career flash before him. He would never play a game professionally again, let alone as captain of the Aces. The media could finally find truth in the nickname they had saddled him with (<em>with no merit, okay maybe a little</em>) as he settled into Las Vegas. “Party Boy Parson takes after Zimmermann” would be the final headline he was granted. Not “Parson retires after eighth Cup win,” as he had dreamt, or “Parson dies in fiery, high speed crash,” like he sometimes thought. His speeding was, after all, what had gotten him into trouble tonight. Kent thought that it was almost fitting that his last headline as an NHL player would be filled with Zimms’ name, being as Jack had been the one to bring his name into relevancy. God, he couldn’t even get out of Jack's shadow after years of blinding himself in the bright lights and hot sun of Vegas. </p><p> </p><p>Drawing him away from his thoughts, the officer repeated his question. When he saw Kent’s deflated shrug, he assumed his search, reaching for the bag he had in the backseat of the rental. The bag was practically the only thing in the car, besides for Kent’s phone and wallet in the front cupholder. He had only rented the car after their last game, wanting to get away from his teammates, who couldn’t help but look disappointed. Disappointed at their captain who wasn’t even good enough to beat <em>St. Louis</em>. Kent supposed he could provide them with one last reason to be disappointed before he was booted from the league.</p><p> </p><p>Kent felt his heart rate rapidly accelerate as the officer grabbed the bag, as Kent prayed, for probably the first time in years, that the officer couldn’t hear the sound of pills rattling inside of the material. That it was only his heightened longing for the release the drugs could give him that allowed him to be hyper aware of every sound they made. That maybe he would be lucky enough that the cop wouldn’t find the pills or the bag of coke he’d shoved in one of the bottles. Well, Kent had never considered himself lucky.</p><p> </p><p>“What do we have here?” the officer questioned, reaching for the zipper of the bag.</p><p> </p><p><em>Oh God, this is it. This is the end. Well, hockey was nice while it lasted</em>, Kent thought. He wondered for a minute if he should put up a protest (“Hey, that’s an invasion of privacy! What about my rights?”), but realized his inability to shut up had been the very thing to bring this situation upon him. Talking now would only hurt him, and he couldn't trust himself to put up a good fight, as he felt the boosted courage the drugs had given him start to fade. Kent could only sigh as the officer dug through the contents of his bag to find three orange bottles lying haphazardly in the mess. Noticing the name on the prescription was not the same on the license handed to him, the officer had the balls to let out a laugh, sounding happy at his discovery. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, Mr. Parson, looks like you are in a world of trouble. Why don’t you take a seat over there for me?” </p><p> </p><p>As Kent took a seat on the indicated curb, he wondered what his mom would think when she heard the news. Maybe all those missed calls and unanswered texts would be passed off as a side-effect of his legal trouble, but maybe that was wishful thinking. Scratch that, it was definitely wishful thinking. Lydia Parson had never once “passed off” any of Kent’s actions, always knowing what he was thinking before he even did. She had always been ready to greet Kent with a steaming cup of cocoa after a tough practice, or with a smile and a warm hug when he felt so lost that he could lay in bed and sleep for a few days. God, he needed sleep. Kent couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full-night’s rest. Definitely at least two months. With all the stress surrounding getting to playoffs, he had barely enough time to run new plays, practice long enough and hard enough for his liking, and take care of Kit. Kit. What would happen to her while Kent was in jail, or rehab, or whatever small hut in the woods they were sending him to? He should text her regular sitter, a sweet girl (really), to let her know he’d be gone longer than he thought. Maybe Swoops could even watch her for a few days. Oh, Swoops. He should tell his A that he would soon be bumped up in rank. While he was at it, he should text his manager. She would kill him if he left her high and dry while he was getting booked<em> in Missouri</em>, of all places. As the rambling subsided, Kent had one thought: he <em>had</em> to get to his phone.</p><p> </p><p>Kent worked his way to his feet, which took much longer than he would like to admit, and stumbled his way to the passenger door of the car. Looking around, he saw the cop sitting in the driver’s seat of his patrol car, talking to somebody on his walkie, and looking at the laptop fixed to the dash. Kent didn’t have time to dwell on the talk he could hear floating through the window; he had a job to do. Opening the door, Kent spotted his phone sitting where he had left it (<em>thrown it, more like</em>) after picking up the rental. He grabbed the phone, noticing a new crack on the screen, and skipped past messages from the guys asking him to join them on their bar crawl that evening and consolatory texts from his mother on the loss, landing his thumb on the contact dubbed “Swoops” with several heart eye emojis. If he could just call Jeff, he would be able to pick him up from the station, and hopefully call his manager. He had known Jeff for three years; he knew he wouldn’t say anything until the dust settled on this whole mess, even if that meant filling his lungs with the offending substance until Kent sorted himself out enough to emerge from the cloud. Heaven knows that Kent had wound up in too many dusty situations that Jeff had patiently waited for him to get out of since his arrival in Vegas. </p><p> </p><p>The phone rang two times before Kent was answered with the sound of club music and laughter. </p><p> </p><p>“Parser, hey! You decide you comin’ out? Scraps s’doing body shots off of-”</p><p> </p><p>“Jeff, listen.”</p><p> </p><p>At the sound of his first name and the tone Kent was using, Jeff sobered up considerably.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s wrong, Parse? You okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Kent sighed, knowing saying this would make the situation all the more real. 

“Jeff, I’m in some trouble. I got pulled over, and the cop was being a complete asshole, and he searched my car, and now I don’t know what to fucking do.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, Parse… I-Wait, what? He searched your car? Did he find something?”</p><p> </p><p>Kent could hear the abrupt switch from disappointed concern to angry confrontation. Kent only hoped that anger wasn’t directed at him, but even if it was, he probably deserved it.</p><p> </p><p>“Some valium, coke, among other things.”</p><p> </p><p>Kent wished he could just hang up then, but knew that would only make Jeff more upset. Kent listened to him heave a pinched sigh and excuse himself from the club, and then heard the slam of a car door. That worried Kent.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, man. You shouldn’t be driving if you’ve been drinking. I don’t want-“</p><p> </p><p>“You’re seriously lecturing me right now? I got a fucking cab, okay? Now, where do I need to tell the driver to go?”</p><p> </p><p>Kent spotted the officer exiting his vehicle and stumbled back to the curb, hurriedly telling Jeff to go back to the hotel until he called him again, then hung up. </p><p> </p><p>Too late he thought of how this would come back down on Jack. He was still at that stupid college with shit hockey. He hadn’t even made it to the league. He couldn’t handle being slaughtered by the media and picked apart by vultures another time. This situation would only bring him more bad press, a rekindling of the popular mode of thinking, “Did Parson get Jack Zimmermann addicted to get ahead? Did Jack Zimmermann get Parson addicted then took things too far one night?”</p><p>He should text him, tell him, warn him, apologize. </p><p> </p><p>He had only enough time to find the contact he had never deleted and punched out a quick message.</p><p> </p><p>To Zimms (2:32 am):</p><p>I’m sorry.</p><p><br/>
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